#192 Glory

Someone has written “Barcelona” on the top step, eye level from beneath the stage, to avoid a repeat of that terrible “Hellllooooo Ohio!” outside Detroit last year. He hitches up his jeans and wishes for hips, then wishes for her hips, for a sign to direct him, “Tell her you miss her”, or “Don’t ask about the kids”.

He has the best life in the world. When the voices come, when they say Failure and Cliché and Has-been, he reminds them of units sold and miles traveled and round platinum circles on radio station walls. And then he takes another drink.

The crowd roars and stomps. He shuts his eyes, right hand wrapped around a strut, and the entire world spins around him, The fucking world revolves around you, doesn’t it, and settles, a five-year-old wobbling on a pink bicycle down a white, white driveway, and himself holding the back of the seat, running, running, and then letting go.

He opens his eyes. Stage light leaking through the trapdoor edges. Jimmy’s in the shadows, red-taped mic ready to hand off. He takes the mic, he breathes in, out, expels the memory he would like to have, fends off the memory he has, and breathes in again. This is where the smile goes, nod to Jimmy, and then the button pressed, the short six steps to glory and adulation and knowing that being enough for thirty thousand will, for a little while, be enough.